Just Like Heaven
by hyperempathie
Summary: Pete tries his hardest to conceal any affections aimed towards a close friend and Michael suffers the consequences. In which Henrietta is a professional beauty school dropout. (CuRed)


_I came upon your room it stuck into my head _  
_We leapt into the bed degrading even lice _  
_You took delight in taking down _  
_All my shielded pride _  
_Until exposed became my darker side_

Peter Murphy's deep voice bellowed in the background of the steady hum of Henrietta Biggle who knelt next to two bowls containing hair dye: one black, almost full, the other a small amount of red. She held a purple tint brush in her hand like a lethal weapon and knelt over Peter Grey, whose phone provided little light against the dark of the room, Henrietta having lit a few candles beforehand so she could at least see what she was doing.

It was 9PM on a Saturday and the room smelled like hair dye and desperation, the prior of which the 16 year old scooped up onto her brush before pulling up a section of Peter Grey's hair. The plastic gloves made her hands feel sweaty, and she hummed along to Dark Entries.

"I would pay money to hear Peter Murphy narrate my life," Pete's strained voice made itself apparent.

"He did. It's called She's in Parties," she retaliated and Pete chuckled lightly.

"I _would_ know about the graveyard scene," he agreed.

The door of Henrietta's room clicked open and her mother's frame peeked inside.

"Oh, Henrietta," she chimed, "one of your friends is here," the Biggle girl groaned against the fruity voice of her mother, who moved aside to reveal Michael Lynch standing in the doorway in all his gangly glory.

He walked inside, careful not to step on the few light sources on the floor.

"I didn't know you were a fan of scented candles," he announced, walking up to her and Pete, "although it does nothing to counter the fact that this place smells like chemicals and cheap hairspray."

"Smells like teen spirit," Pete commented. He dug through his pockets and fished out his lighter before leaning forward and reaching for the pack of cigarettes resting on the floor next to the bowls of dye.

The flick of the lighter accentuated the pause between songs. A god in an Alcove began when he took his first drag. The guitar sympathized with his miseries.

"Michael, you look like you were hit by a train," Pete mused before adding, "moreso than usual."

"Thanks. New eyeliner."

"Ah."

The conversation dulled down, the steady crackle of the record player sounding occasionally against the music while Michael read poetry about dead rabbits and pornography.

"Okay," Henrietta announced, "wash this out in half an hour. I'll be right back," and just like that she was gone.

_I do get bored, I get bored_  
_In the flat field_  
_I get bored, I do get bored_  
_In the flat field_

"You have dye on your forehead," Michael's hoarse voice was heard, before he leaned closer and wiped it off with his hand. Their knees were touching. Pete half hoped they would stay like that. He wondered if they could.

But the other boy leaned back, so Pete sighed and picked at his black nail polish, "put on some Cure, will you?" before placing his cigarette in the red, glass ashtray.

He complied, digging around Henrietta's records before replacing the one that was playing prior.

Robert Smith set the mood and Pete swore every time The Cure was playing he wanted to kiss Michael Lynch. The dim light of the candles reflected in his sunken, lined eyes and the shadow of his nose and cheekbones was evident against pale skin.

He grabbed Pete's cigarette, "I forgot to bring mine," he explained and brought the filter to his mouth before inhaling.

"It's okay."

Pete stood up.

"I'm gonna go drown myself in Henrietta's sink and maybe wash this out in the process," he pointed towards his hair.

"Try not to go blind," Michael retaliated. Last time he got hair dye in his right eye and spent the following week with a patch of gauze over it and a wounded ego.

Henrietta Biggle's bathroom was the brightest room in her house and he squinted his eyes against the glaring light as he turned the faucet and set the water temperature to mildly scalding before leaning forward and shutting his eyes tightly. Steam began to rise around him.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

After the third repeat he opened one of his eyes to peek and see if the water was clear yet or if there was still residue left in his hair. None. He grabbed a white towel off the rack and regretted it instantly, remembering to buy Henrietta a new set at the Home Depot.

He cringed at the damage he had done to her sink. Sparing the bathroom one last glance, he walked out into the hallway and into Henrietta's room, to find she still wasn't back. Robert Smith's voice greeted him while he stepped inside and returned to his seat.

_Whenever I'm alone with you  
You make me feel like I am home again_  
_Whenever I'm alone with you  
You make me feel like I am whole again_

He wondered how much upkeep Michael's hair required, if any, and no one was supposed to look that good with hair that's never seen the likes of a brush.

"Firkle's in the hospital," he said, eyes not moving from the screen of his phone, "he fucked up his ankle."

"Holy shit," Pete whispered.

"Yeah... Skip class with me tomorrow," it was an order more than an offer, so an answer wasn't needed, "I'll bring my car, we'll drive around the shitty town with some Morrissey playing," seeing the hesitation on Pete's face, he continued, "I miss hanging out together."

The door opened and Henrietta's frame blocked the light from the hallway before she slid inside, bumping her derriere into the door and successfully closing it. In her hands she held a tray with three brown coffee mugs and a pack of sugar cubes.

She set the tray down on the floor and sat next to it before popping one of the cubes into her cup and stirring. She grinned at Pete's towel turban, "my mother's gonna be pissed about that. You can keep it."

They disbanded at midnight and Pete went to bed thinking of excuses to touch Michael's hair.

He awoke to the sound of his phone ringing and he sat up and cleared his throat before answering it.

"Yeah?"

"Change of plan. Come outside," it was Michael, of all people.

He hung up and waded through his closet after stumbling out of bed. Whatever looked the cleanest made the cut and, brushing his hair with his fingers, he walked down the stairs and put on his gaudy purple winklepickers before stepping out into the cold November air.

There he was, true to his word, hair and unbuttoned coat whipping in the sharp wind as Pete hugged his jacket tighter and made his way onto the street and towards him. He didn't want to ask where they were going, quite frankly it didn't matter as long as he was out of the house. And with him.

A part of him wanted to grab Michael's hand in some public act of affection, so he dug his fists into the pockets of his jacket to rid himself of the thought.

"I've lost sight of where I stand with you," Michael Lynch declared, "or am I over-evaluating our friendship?"

Friendship. The word stuck to the back of his throat like a cancer and he coughed, "no, I just," he began, feeling uncomfortable with his voice, his speech, he felt inadequate in expressing himself, "wanting more from something makes people step away from that thing completely, I guess."

"Do you want more from us, then?" the wind was a white noise in the background to remind him he was still alive.

He didn't want to answer, "yeah," but at the same time he did.

Michael stopped in his tracks and doubt overtook Pete's mind as he berated himself for saying anything at all.

"And that's why you spent the last three months continuously bailing on me?" and that was not the question Pete was expecting, but he nodded regardless, "Christ," he sighed and stepped closer.

He removed his hand from his pocket and it hung limply next to Michael's, who intertwined their thumbs, "I thought you hated me."

"Hate is conformist," he replied, and then, "I want Just Like Heaven to be the soundtrack to me imposing affection onto you."

"You," Michael grabbed his hand, "strange as angels."

When the sun rose in the horizon, somehow November weather didn't seem that bad and Pete praised whoever forged the universe for the way Michael's cold, bony fingers felt when they tightened around his hand.


End file.
